


Sticks And Stones

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gabriel is a dick, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Aziraphale is banished from heaven, but it’s Gabriel’s words that hurt the most.Mentions of disordered eating.





	Sticks And Stones

The vellum scroll had looked innocent enough, prettily bound up with a gold ribbon, but at the sight of it Aziraphale had felt the last two weeks of nervous waiting congeal into a heavy lump in his stomach. He'd survived the hellfire - at least as far as Heaven knew - but he'd known there would be something further. 

With trepidation and trembling hands, he lit the candles and answered the summons, the last to appear in an endless room of angels. They waited silently in their ethereal forms, wings and eyes and wheels of fire. The Heavenly Host in full force. 

Aziraphale stood alone in his human corporation, suddenly incredibly conscious of the worn marks on his waistcoat and the scuff on his left shoe. Gabriel was the only other human form, although not in a corporation, but he stood there tall and handsome and without a hair out of place so it didn’t help at all. 

He refused to let his despair show, trying his best to channel the thought of Crowley breathing hellfire at Gabriel, rather than dwelling on the Fall he was half sure awaited him.

Gabriel seemed more cold and disdainful than ever, although Aziraphale supposed that Crowley had already witnessed this version of him at his trial. By some cruel minor miracle, his voice was projected evenly through the room, enough for the scores of attendant angels to hear clearly. He held a scroll, although he didn’t seem to need it. Aziraphale was slightly surprised that it wasn’t something more modern, but perhaps the gravity of the situation called for grandeur. 

"Welcome, Principality. We have considered your actions and your recent trial, and your fate has been decided." It had been no trial, just an attempted execution, but then there had only been a handful of witnesses, and who could ever accuse an Archangel of lying? 

"You make a poor angel, Aziraphale, always have, but Heaven is merciful and we have decided not to condemn you to Fall. Apparently not even your dalliances with the demon Crowley are enough for that, although obviously I disagree." Aziraphale was sure at least some of that had been ad-libbed, it didn’t sound like the usual overly flowery language Heaven tended to use in formal communication, but apparently Gabriel was taking his chance to get a few digs in.

He didn't understand how he had been bad enough to be condemned to destruction by hellfire but not bad enough to Fall, but he didn't bother to defend himself, and certainly didn't risk asking questions. There was no point. Perhaps minds had been changed, perhaps this was all for heaven to save face after failing to destroy him, but this final decision in a room of his peers - some had once been friends, in the distant divine way of angels - would be the end of it.

“Your first act on Earth was to fail at keeping the humans safe from the demon Crowley, allowing them forbidden knowledge that condemned them to leave Eden, directly contravening God’s will. Your second act was to willfully lose heavenly property, and since then you have been a continuous underachiever.”

The litany kept coming, biting and vicious, so many examples of his failings as an angel - as the Earthly representative of the Almighty - coming from that handsome, uncaring face. Petty miracles done to save works of art or a single human, a waste of power and time. Letting the side down. Condemnation of his time with Crowley, of events he didn't even realize had filtered back up to heaven, of failures he's long forgotten.

The words wash over him until he's burning and shivering with shame.

Minutes have passed, maybe hours, before Gabriel reaches the end, rolling the scroll back together. "You are banished to Earth, Principality Aziraphale. Stay out of our plans and we'll leave you alone. Get discorporated and you'll be sent straight back down in whatever's available - it's not as though we want you up here." Gabriel's scornful gaze ran over the lesser angel's body, resting on the soft curve of his waist before flickering back to his face. "We won't waste anything good on you, you'll only ruin that one too."

Holding back tears with sheer force of will, refusing to be further humiliated, Aziraphale nodded. Banishment to Earth, but not Falling, and even discorporating wouldn't be a disaster. It was more than he was hoping for, more than he felt he deserved, but it still hurt. 

"Begone, Principality Aziraphale. You are no longer welcome in Heaven." Formalities over, an ugly sneer settled on the Archangel's face. "Go back to your filthy little demon. I'm sure there's something at your ridiculous shop that needs your attention." 

Gabriel turned away, half lecturing and half gossiping to the nearby angels as Aziraphale trudged towards the door. "We're all aware of his failings, but he could at least have made himself respectable. Looking after yourself isn't a sin, people! We should always remember to be pleasing to the eye - it's not vanity, it's just part of the job. Whereas Aziraphale, he probably can't even go a day without getting distracted -  _ tempted _ \- by gross matter. It’s just embarrassing!" The other angels tittered politely as he guffawed.

Aziraphale fled Heaven, Gabriel's contemptuous laughter ringing in his ears, and didn't stop until he was safely ensconced on the comfortable sofa in his shop, back ramrod straight, clasped hands trembling and lips pressed tightly together in a hard, miserable little line.

*-*-*-*-*

After regaling Crowley with the important bits of his little conversation with Upstairs - banishment, a guarantee of a corporation,  _ not Falling _ \- Aziraphale found himself exhausted. The stress of waiting, the relief of the news and the embarrassment of Gabriel's words all hit him at once, dragging his body into an uncharacteristic heap in the armchair. The demon was much more animated, exhilarated by the thought that they'd both somehow got away with it, and immediately started on their celebratory plans.

"Just a little dinner," Crowley wheedled, "you know they have those little meringues for dessert that you can't resist, and their wine-"

Aziraphale was suddenly on his feet, towering over Crowley, frustrated anger sitting uneasy on his face. "Don't  _ tempt _ me, demon!"

Blindsided, Crowley held his hands up defensively, his eyebrows high and shocked above his sunglasses. "I'm not tempting you, angel, I wouldn't, I'm just… reminding you of all the places that we can go to without worrying about being watched. It's great!"

Shaking his head, Aziraphale backed away, a flush sitting high on his cheeks. "I don't need reminding, I don't want tempting, just… please go away. Go away, Crowley!" He whirled and was gone, leaving a bewildered demon in his wake. Crowley sat for a few moments, a little dazed and feeling as though he had emotional whiplash, before scowling and jerking to his feet. He left the bookshop with a slammed door that rattled the blinds and sent a gust of wind skimming through the empty room.

*-*-*-*-*

For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale went to bed hungry. His body certainly didn't  _ need _ to eat, or sleep, but angels struggle to change, and he'd rather got into the habit of having at least a snack - often something sweet from the lovely little bakery down the road, or an indulgent glass of wine - each day, and a brief rest each evening. Far more of both, if Crowley had escorted him to a restaurant. 

He really didn't feel that he deserved to indulge, not today, with banishment and guilt twin weights on his chest, and some small part of him wanted to prove that Gabriel could be wrong about one thing, at least. He lay curled in bed, arms wrapped around himself to provide comfort against the hollow emptiness inside him, eyes closed against the threat of tears, and tried to ignore the nagging feeling that everything he was doing was just making things worse. 

*-*-*-*-*

Crowley had apparently made himself scarce after Aziraphale's cruel and unfair words. For a week he looked up hopefully at every chime of the bell above the door, schooling his face from nervous, apologetic excitement to polite indifference every time the visitor sported no sunglasses or wicked hips. After that, he stopped bothering, burying himself in book restoration and trying to forget the taste of sushi and champagne and ice cream and buttery croissants with jam. Heaven didn't want him, and now nor did his demon, but at least he could try not to let himself down.

*-*-*-*-*

It took nearly four months before Crowley skulked back to the shop, chased inside by a blast of frozen November wind. Before the birth of the antichrist, a few months not seeing each other would have been nothing, but after the last few years of living in each other's pockets, it had seemed to last forever. He unwound his woolen scarf, dropping it carelessly on the empty desk, and peered around the shelves. 

"Aziraphale? You here?" There was a cry of surprise from the back room, and Crowley was suddenly face to face with-

The person in front of him looked like Aziraphale, sort of. He was thinner, for starters, though Crowley still had by far the more angular figure. The clothes - well preserved for decades - were crumpled, a rip in the waistcoat and a thread coming loose from a button, while a leather belt held up the trousers. The smile on his face didn't quite seem to reach all the way to his eyes, not quite able to muster the effort required for it to traverse the few extra inches.

"Oh my dear, it's so good to see you!" That seemed truthful enough, but Crowley still watched the angel warily from a little more of a distance than normal.

"And you, angel." 

Something in Aziraphale's face relaxed at that, perhaps not expecting such an amicable response, but he was still wringing his hands guiltily. "I'm so sorry I was cruel the last time we spoke. I'd had a frightfully bad day and… well, it's no excuse. I'm sorry." 

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "I'd forgotten it already." He looked over the angel, resolving to keep the much needed discussion for later. "So... you have any wine?"

A spark of the old angel flickered. "Of course! Help yourself."

The bottles were dusty - not just the old dust of vintage bottles, but new dust speaking to abandonment and neglect. When he returned, there was a single glass on the table. Waving the bottle at Aziraphale, he quirked an eyebrow but was met with a prim "no thank you". Four month old argument aside, something was definitely amiss.

The angel busied himself in work, scurrying round the shop, seemingly unable to sit still. Shelves were dusted, spines neatly nudged into alignment, and a delicate looking book on the table underwent a careful operation involving glue and a scalpel. 

Crowley drank and lounged. Watching the angel from behind dark glass, he savoured the taste of the wine and let each glass linger, drawing out a half bottle far longer than usual. There were conversions that needed to be had sooner rather than later, conversations that would be better handled sober, and he didn't feel in the mood to get sloshed, particularly if he'd be doing it on his own.

He broached the subject when Aziraphale put down the old book for a surprisingly indulgent stretch.

"At first I thought you were happy with Heaven's decision, but I'm really not getting that impression any more."

It took the angel a few mixed facial expressions - mostly, it seemed, to refocus on something that wasn't five inches from his nose - before he responded.

"I  _ am _ pleased with it. I'm free to do what I want, now, no more paperwork, no more having to look over my shoulder all the time…" 

"Then why do you look so-" Crowley cut himself off before he could say  _ miserable _ or  _ insubstantial _ or  _ hopeless _ "-different? I haven't seen you change this much in a century."

Aziraphale sighed. From the stubborn expression on the demon's face, this wouldn't be a quick discussion. Reluctantly he rose from his desk and settled down in an armchair instead. Nearer to Crowley but certainly not cwtched up on the sofa together. "Just because I'm not welcome up there, doesn't mean I need to let the side down. I'm trying to be a better angel."

Crowley bit back the cruel response that it was a bit late for that now, and in denying himself the cruelty found himself far more upset than he'd planned to be. 

"Well, you look worse." And what happened to 'our side', anyway? 

Aziraphale looked down at himself critically, as though he hadn't done so in a long time, and tugged at the loose thread on his shirt. With a blink, his well worn clothes were swapped for an untailored grey three piece suit, shoes polished and full length  _ fucking grey _ tie.

Crowley thought he might throw up.

"No, that's not what- this isn't you!" he cried, "This is their shitty version of what they think you should look like and I hate it! Can't you just look like  _ you _ ?" He flipped a hand and Aziraphale was back in his previous outfit, loose thread snipped, waistcoat patched and everything neatly pressed.

Aziraphale didn't mention the presumptuousness of Crowley redressing him, or the tidy needlework, but a frown had settled on his forehead. "When I look like  _ me _ I don't look like an angel at all."

Something clicked in Crowley's head and he scowled, taking off his sunglasses to make proper eye contact as he leant forward. "Gabriel hates you. What bull did he come out with now?"

The angel’s mouth twisted unhappily. "Nothing that wasn't true."

"Tell me, angel. Please." He put a little demonic compulsion into his words. It never usually had any impact at all on Aziraphale, but it seemed to work on this small, sad incarnation. Perhaps it was the please. 

"They don't want me up there because I'm a bad angel."

Crowley's heart ached for the picture of misery the angel made, hunched over and drooping on the armchair. He reached a pale hand across the space between them and awkwardly rested it on his knee, squeezing reassuringly. "He told me - you - to 'Shut up and die already', I'm pretty sure whatever he said he was just being a dick."

Aziraphale shook his head, staring at the floor with an expression of misery, and confessed. "He said I ruin my corporations with gross matter. That I'm an embarrassment. Oh Crowley, he said so many awful things, I felt so small, in front of everyone." Eyes flickered up to meet Crowley's then skittered away again. "And he tried to convince them that my- my 'dalliances' with you should have-" he choked "-should have made me Fall." 

There was stunned silence for a moment before Crowley exploded to his feet, golden eyes constricted to furious slits and hands spasmodically clenching into fists at his sides. The outline of dark wings shuddered, half manifesting in the gloom behind him.

" _I'm going to_ _rip his fucking wings off_."

Horrified, Aziraphale shook his head frantically. "No, Crowley, no - he's right, I am a bad angel. And that's ok because if- if he's a good angel then I don't want to be a good one! And what we have - whatever we have - is wonderful, truly, and it could never be a sin. I just can't stand the thought of being an embarrassment to Her."

"Oh come  _ on _ angel, he's talking shit! You're better than any of them. And you could never be an embarrassment, not to God, not to- not to me, not to anyone."

Aziraphale's face crumpled and tears overflowed before he buried his head in his hands. "Oh angel, no, don't cry," Crowley pleaded, anger turned to compassion in an instant, "I was trying to be nice!" The only response was a wet laugh and a fresh flood of tears.

Awkwardly squashing himself on to the armchair, Crowley gathered the sobbing angel into his arms, stroking soft angelic curls and making soothing noises.

They stayed there until Aziraphale was hiccupping and yawning, exhausted and blotchy. "'m sorry."

"Don't be." Extracting himself from the tumble of limbs, Crowley stood and offered Aziraphale a hand. "Bed. Talking can wait for tomorrow." 

*-*-*-*-*

Tea was first order of the day, loose leaf earl grey steeped for just long enough. Crowley left it steaming on the bedside table, kissing Aziraphale on the forehead gently as he left.

Wrapped up warm, scarf and two jumpers under his downy coat, Crowley braced himself for the outside. Ruthlessly squashing the part of him that wanted to remain curled up and warm with his angel, he headed towards Borough Market.

It's November. Pears, Crowley thought. Pears, and apples, the best in the country, and out of season miracled raspberries and peaches with as much thought put into their flavours as he's ever put into anything.

When he returned, Aziraphale was sat at the kitchen table in pale tartan pyjamas, another mug of tea between his hands. The mug was half empty - or perhaps half full - so at least he'd had some of it.

Crowley shed his layers and settled his purchases on the side, then slumped down next to him.

"So. Not eating, huh?" Subtle as a brick.

Aziraphale stirred the tea with an absent twist of a finger, creating a little whirlpool and staring blindly into it. "It's silly."

"Your corporation is thinner, which is fine if that's what you want, but so are  _ you _ , and that's not just to do with food. I'm worried, angel, and that's not a good look for a demon."

That earned him an inelegant snort. "I… want to eat. I do. I miss it. I didn't at first, but then I realized I was being silly. But every time I try, I just hear their stupid laughter, Gabriel's stupid voice. And then I feel small and stupid all over again." Aziraphale didn't meet his eyes. 

Crowley swallowed back a lump in his throat and grabbed Aziraphale's hand before he changed his mind. "I'm here. It's ok." He took a deep breath. "Your aura isn't looking great. I don't think denial is a good look for you. You're all… fadey."

Aziraphale still didn't look up. "I know." In a very, very small voice, he added, "I think I need help." 

They sat in silence for a long moment. "I think," Crowley said slowly, "I think that you're rejecting the things that used to give you joy, things that She created for humans and for us to love. And I don't think you do well without that." 

He stood, reached for the brown bags, and carefully decanted the fruit onto the table in a tumble of greens and reds and oranges. "And I think every time you eat, and every time you take pleasure in something, you need to remember that it's a type of worship, and that She loves you for it. More than she could ever love Gabriel's cruelty." 

Aziraphale's eyes were wide, tears threatening to spill with every blink. "Crowley, I… that was…"

"Disgustingly sappy and far too devout for a demon, won't happen again." He picked up a perfectly ripe pear and offered it to the angel with a smile. "Go on, have a bite."

The angel gave him a skeptical look, but dutifully took it from his hand, before turning his expression on the fruit. "I suddenly have a lot more sympathy for Eve."

They sat in silence as Aziraphale sniffed at the fruit and false started a few times, opening his mouth wide and closing it again to swallow.

Crowley gave him a few moments before nudging him along. "Just a little bite, just a nibble. For me?"

A flicker of eyes to Crowley's face then, and somehow whatever expression rested there was enough to grant Aziraphale permission. He bit gently, closing his eyes as his teeth sank into the fruit, letting the juice trickle over his fingers as he hummed in delight.

Crowley could have sworn he saw the angel's aura brighten with just that taste.

"It's not the Ritz, but-"

Aziraphale licked carefully at the juice dripping from the plump fruit. "It's perfect. Thank you, Crowley." He took another bite before offering the pear to Crowley, who shrugged and bit off a rudely large mouthful, pushing the punnet of raspberries towards him. 

With sticky fingers, Aziraphale popped a ripe, plump raspberry into his mouth, and his eyebrows rose in surprised delight. "Oh! How did you find… in November..." He shook his head, astonished. "You made these?"

"Yeah, but not the apples. Or the pears. England's finest, y'know."

"It tastes… oh Crowley, it tastes of  _ Eden _ ."

And like that, Aziraphale was in tears again, one hand reaching out to Crowley who dropped the pear in an instant to grab hold. 

"Thought I'd try my best, it seemed important. Food and wine and tailored suits are meant to be enjoyed - it would be awful to lose all of that because some arse of an Archangel wanted to make you miserable." 

Aziraphale wiped his eyes and scowled, though his scrumpled nose meant it didn't have quite the same gravitas as the same expression on Crowley. "He is an arse, isn't he."

"An absolute prick."

They sat, hand in hand, surrounded by fruits they remembered from their very first days on Earth, tasting and savouring and taking pleasure in the sticky sweet flavours of Eden.

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter @Kaz_Langston


End file.
